Faith
by Subject 0
Summary: Mordin has been having nightmares again, and it's up to a certain unexpected friend to give him some sound advice. One-shot.


**Faith**

* * *

><p>"<em>Don't sleep well, Shepard. Still remember. Still regret."<em>

There were four white body bags, each sitting on a different table, each stained with splotches of red. Blood seeped through the plastic, the contours of each cadaver faintly visible. The single bulb above his head shined a pool of light around him. It flickered weakly, emitting a crackling, static sound, both ominous and eerie. Pacing towards the other end of the room, he approached the body bag on the far right. Slowly he reached his hand out and pulled down on the zipper, his heart pounding harder with each inch he gave.

He unraveled the bag just enough to make out an image of the corpse: a female krogan. Her skin had paled and lost its natural luster. She was cold, unmoving, silent. Her jaw was missing, and her eyes were hollow in deep, dark sockets. Her chest was split open, heart and lungs visible inside her ruined rib cage. An expression of pain and horror tore through her countenance. She must have spent her last minutes in agony, he deducted.

A cold chill ran down his spine, a sharp, and he felt a sharp, prickly sensation over every inch of his body. He felt his hands numb, and the fronts of his toes curl. The poor woman, he thought. The poor death she must have faced. Praying inwardly for the lost soul, he closed his eyes, then pulled the zipper back up.

Suddenly, his body went rigid. Something wrapped tightly around his wrist.

"You killed us. You kill us _all._"

* * *

><p>Mordin jolted upright, waking from the dream with a frightened gasp. A thin sheen of sweat stuck to his slim figure, the cold night air nipping at his cheeks. He panted heavily, his chest heaving up and down with each strained breath, and palmed his hands over his face. He clenched his teeth behind sealed lips and grooved his brows, his digits curling against his temples. Not another nightmare, not again.<p>

The clock to his right read 3:00 A.M. Earth Standard Time, but the fact that it was night on some distant planet wouldn't help him sleep. Years of insomnia made him restless to the point where two hours of bed was a luxury. It was after a nightmare like this that he wished he could simply rest in peace. He shut his eyes, then took in a deep, nasally inhale. Why was he having the same dream again? Was it a sign? A message? A _punishment? _He ushered something beneath his breath, then slowly reopened his eyes.

"Must work…"

He was fast to dress. Slipping into his all purpose suit, he headed for the Tech Lab, his pensive gaze locked with the ground and his hands gathered on the small of his back. Maybe there was something in the food, he thought. After all, Gardener wasn't well known for his cleanliness. Or it might have been sleep deprivation. Or maybe he was just going insane.

The dream was so vivid, so lifelike, so _real. _It felt like he was actually there. Like he could feel the krogan's death grip on his wrist. Like _he _was the one who killed her. _"No, impossible," _he reasoned, rubbing the side of his thumb against his forehead. _"Could not be. Just a dream. Only a dream."_

But as he muddled with his thoughts, he failed to catch sight of the glowing blue orb that followed short behind him.

The pungent smell of nitric acid and ammonia – it always reminded him of the STG. The time he worked with them, the things he accomplished, the friends he made; aside from fighting alongside Shepard against the Reapers, it was the greatest achievement of his short salarian life. He often prided himself in his work with the genophage.

But unfortunately, it was the same satisfaction he indulged that his nightmares sprang from. Mordin's work, from a humanitarian outlook, was brutal, cruel, heartless. It led to the deaths of potential billions of krogans. Ironic that for the greater good of society, he had to take countless lives of that society.

If the galaxy had not acted, the krogan would recover from the genophage, grow immune to its effects, and seek revenge on the Council that they believed so unjustly wronged them. Yet war never changes. The only plan of action the Council surmised was renewing the genophage. And that was where Mordin fit the keyhole perfectly.

The memories did not sit soft in his soul. Though he played it off as a job, it was truly taxing, both physically, and mentally. They stirred nightmares, terrible nightmares. Over time, he slowly grew out of them. Or at least, he thought he did. In the recess of his mind, he knew he would never be free from his sin. The blood would never wash from his hands.

Not a day went by where he perished the thought.

The sound of footsteps quelled his train of thought. He cleared his throat, his eyes still staring down at the chemicals in front of him. "Ah, Shepard. Nice of you to stop by. Rather early, no?"

"We are not Shepard-Commander."

* * *

><p>Mordin blinked and glanced over his shoulder. Legion? He was silent for a moment, but casually continued, "Ah. Legion. Presumptuous of me to assume you to be Shepard. Most others do not enter the lab. Not used to company from anyone else. But that isn't necessarily bad. Always nice to see new face." He turned busily back to the lab table, his fingers dancing across the holopad to his right.<p>

"Acknowledged."

The scientist, still keeping his sights on his work, continued, "Hm. Odd. Not here to initiate conversation? Perhaps seeking answer? No no, geth have large data bases, vast amounts of information. Nothing I know that you would need. Simply coming as a compatriot? Not likely. Have barely spoken to one another in the past. What is the reasoning?"

Legion's brow – or whatever that strange piece of metal sitting above his optical lens was – lifted upwards. "According to our data on the physiology of your species, we estimate the standard amount of sleep a matured salarian male receives per a natural twenty-four hour cycle to be exactly six hours. You have been dormant for merely one."

"Not like other salarians. Not average. Much more to do, much less time to do it," Mordin answered.

At this point, Legion approached the lab table, standing awkwardly across from Mordin on the other end. He stared at the salarian, his optic lens focusing in and out, as if he was zooming in on his features.

"Anything else?"

His vision reverted to normal. "We have reached a consensus that Doctor-Solus has remained awake for far too long," he answered. "We are concerned for your well being. Basic motor functions begin to diminish at an exponential rate after forty-eight hours of sleep deprivation. We believe it would be wiser to rest."

Mordin shook his head. "Can't rest. Too much work. Too much to do. Still need to create stronger formula for seeker swarms. May have worked on Horizon, may have worked on Collector ship, but was ineffective in Collector base. Must homogenize. Must perfect."

"There will be more time to perfect in the future. There will not be more time to salvage your health."

"Am fine. Not sleep deprived at all. Feeling wonderful, exuberant."

"You appear to be combining the dexomaltase solvent with the carboxyl-anhydride solution."

Mordin stared at Legion, and then down at the hole in the table he created. The acid ate straight through it, sizzling as it tore the metal apart like a hot knife through butter. Legion stared at Mordin, his brow twitching almost amusedly.

Another awkward silence.

"Minor misjudgment of chemicals used. Too preoccupied conversing with you and working at the same time. Solitude is more efficient. Thank you for coming. Your companionship was thoughtful."

"We did not engender a conversation simply on the grounds of camaraderie," Legion replied. "We were brought to question your mental state of being."

"My mental state of being?" he reiterated, feigning shock at the question, but not enough to seem like he was faking. "Do not quite understand what you are implying. Assess that my recent work has not proven satisfactory? Insinuate I must work harder?"

"That is an inaccurate statement."

"Then why?"

"We have watched you pace down the halls at night. We have heard the words you speak to yourself when you believe none are looking. We have observed and marked your sleep patterns for the past several weeks. "

"All for the purpose of creating a consensus of my mental being?"

"That is correct."

"But not productivity."

"Correct."

Mordin tapped his chin and flexed his right cheek. "Intriguing. Did not believe geth had sense of curiosity in their artificial intelligence cores."

"We do not. Most geth are uninterested in organic matters, especially those that deal with raw emotions. However, this platform has developed an understanding for such emotions. You may label it as curiosity if you desire, but there is no such function in our unit."

"Wish to learn for the sake of understanding?"

"Possible. We do not understand the motive ourselves. We simply – do."

It was haunting how dissonantly similar his last words sounded to Harbinger's. "Fascinating," he mused.

"Melatonin."

"Hm?"

"You have shown signs of grogginess, irritability, anxiety…"

"Know symptoms of flux in melatonin. Do not need to repea-"

"Reoccurring nightmares."

Mordin drew quiet.

"We speculate whether these nightmares are correlated with the impending Reaper threat. It is natural for organic species to release hormones such as melatonin while under influence of fear or apprehension."

"No, not Reapers," Mordin specified, still taken away by the accuracy of his conclusion. "Have never feared Reapers. Have never feared death. It is simply a part of life. Part of the cycle. Very natural."

Legion raised his brow repeatedly, as if he was analyzing everything Mordin said. "Then what is it that you dream?" the geth eventually inquired.

He inhaled and locked his hands behind the small of his back. "Difficult to explain. Hard to confess. But want to get off my chest. Sitting for too long. Far too long."

"This platform will not pursue the question further if Doctor-Solus has designated any signs of…"

"My work in the STG. Wish I could forget. Wish more that I could be forgiven."

"STG, Special Tasks Group – elite espionage organization used by the Citadel Council for counterterrorism, infiltration, reconnaissance, assassination, and sabotage. Doctor-Souls was a member."

"Indeed. Spent many years in STG. Worked hard, fought hard, everything hard. Good times. Good organization."

"We question why Doctor-Solus has had nightmares pertaining to the Special Tasks Group despite previously commending its existence and the work he has put forth through it."

"Proud of work, that is true. Proud of what was achieved." He stared at his toes, his fingers prodding one another. "But never proud of outcome. Never proud of outcome of genophage."

"Krogan genophage – virus limiting birth per carriage of krogan child to 1 out of 1000. Designed to stabilize krogan population during the Krogan Rebellions and save the Citadel races. Produced and distributed by the salarians."

It stung to hear something so horrible that he took a part of summarized so bluntly. "Yes. Brief outline, but accurate outline nonetheless."

"We fail yet to distinguish the basis for the nightmares."

"My work led to deaths of millions, possibly billions. Many suffered. Many more still suffering. Going to Tuchanka to find Maelon one of the hardest ventures of my life. Hard to stomach side effects of genophage first hand. Easy to hear in news. Easy to read in books. Difficult to experience in person."

"The genophage was adapted to save the Citadel races, as well as the rest of the galaxy, from potential krogan encroachment. Its outcomes were anticipated. There was no other option."

"No. Always another option. Always another way to resolve situation peacefully, to solve problems with no one dying. We were simply too narrow-minded. Too foolish. We saw opportunity, we took it. We rushed without thinking clearly."

"You saved the galaxy."

"I doomed a race."

"Inaccurate statement. The krogan race has seen a steady plateau of population in the past one hundred twenty-seven years. To believe the race is imminently doomed is incorrect."

"Many krogan discouraged to mate. Mountains of stillborn children littering Tuchanka has that effect. Millions of possible children lie dead. My fault. My hands. My work that kills them."

"It was a necessary loss to prevent the utter assimilation of the galaxy beneath krogan rule."

"What if geth received similar punishment? What if salarians developed virus for the geth to remove their sentience?"

Legion was still. "We cannot reach a consensus at this time," he finally answered. He glanced at Mordin, who seemed lost in his thoughts, and said, "We acknowledge your statement of reoccurring nightmares being linked to your work with the adaptation of the genophage. We now wish to discern what you witness in this dream."

The salarian shut his lids, rolling his eyes back and forth beneath them, feeling the outlines of their movements as they passed back and forth. "It is a room. Dark, damp, white. Nothing in the room but me. A light turns on and reveals four body-bags. I approach the one on the end. Open it to see who is inside. Krogan woman, horrible disfigured, horribly broken. Tested. Used for experimentation. Makes me sick. I pray for her wellness and turn around, then feel a tug on my wrist…" He reopened his eyes, a shudder coursing through his veins. "That is all there is."

"_Contradiction._" Legion announced. "Despite being a scientist, you pray to a higher power for guidance. Science is the systematic enterprise that organizes and builds knowledge in the form of provable explanations. There is no room for conjecture or blind faith in a field of study. We find this action illogical."

"Not blind faith," Mordin corrected ardently. "Simply faith."

"Religious faith requires one to put forth his trust and belief into a spiritual, cosmic, or intangible power that he cannot comprehend in order to feel offered a proposition of righteousness. It does not attest a similarity to science in any way."

"Used to think so myself. Used to believe religion was false. Was just for the weak. Was only for people who were hopeless. But then I began to think. What if religion brings out best in person? What if a person who is comforted by the belief of a higher power watching over him succeeds, while a man with no faith fails?"

"That is one circumstance regarding one individual. Faith still requires an individual who believes in something that he does not know exists."

"How do you know you exist?"

"Descartes, Rene. _Cogito ergo sum – _'I think therefore I am'."

"Ah yes, Descartes. Very applicable philosopher."

"Faith is not tangible. It is not something that can be measured, or weighed, or seen."

"But that does not immediately mean faith is not reasonable. Faith is simply reason grown courageous." Mordin was beginning to grow more passionate about this topic than he thought he would. Arming his next thoughts, he asked, "How was our universe formed? How are we here today? You know well as I that the possibility of sustaining life on a planet is astronomical."

"Approximately 9.14 times ten to the negative ninety-second percent."

"Exactly."

"That does not rationalize faith."

"Faith does not need rationalization. It is the belief in a higher power that lies far beyond what man can conceive. It is the belief that no matter what occurs, no matter what hole I have found myself in, there will be a way to fix it. There will be a way to redeem myself. To _save _myself. To _forgive _myself." He smiled and tapped the side of his head. "The mind is a powerful tool. But knowledge is only one half. Faith is the other. To do anything, you must first believe in yourself."

The lab grew deathly silent.

"It appears that you have solved your own quandary," said Legion.

But Mordin just shot him a confused look. "How?"

"We understand now that organic philosophy cannot be dictated through fundamental knowledge. Organic faith cannot be measured by through elementary means. From what we have taken from you, we believe that faith is powerful in the hands of those that wish to believe in it. To do anything, you must first believe in yourself. To be forgiven, you must first forgive the jury that sits within you. Only then will you have peace of mind."

"But…" Mordin began. Legion shortly interrupted him with one final sentence.

"Mordin," he said.

"_He rewards who keeps his own faith strong."_


End file.
